


Lost Canvas

by Nekoian



Series: Sewn On [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 19:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: Northern Ireland is helping England sort out his dusty attic and comes across some interesting items, one of which could be of value to his big brother Wales.





	Lost Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> Long time no see everyone, felt like writing this when inspiration hit. Have some vague idea of where to go with it and will update all info as needed. Hoping to go back and write other stuff that might be needed but any confusion let me know and I'll give a brief rehash to what I can I guess. Hoping to dipinto some historical backstory but will take a while to carry on as I have no time for the research ATM...This fic deals with my Sewn On series and has a bunch of OC's. Sorry if it's not great, I'm out of practice...Hope it's sort of Ok.

The amount of crap in England’s attic is unprecedented, though Northern Ireland has to admire his brother’s capacity for sentimentality and patience (he supposes) if only a little bit. He and England stand on the creaking floor of the attic with a feeble crack of light from a single half dead bulb. The sounds of Scotland, Ireland and Wales distantly below and the smell of dust threatening to make Northern Ireland sneeze, he can feel that familiar burning tickle beginning to build up. 

“I suppose I better start organising.” England is stoop backed against the small roof and Northern Ireland politely ignores his brothers pensive expression. “Trying to work out who owns what will take a century.” England smiles like he;s just told a joke; Northern Ireland cracks a smile to signal he found it amusing out of politeness and said encouragement inspires England to take a step forward and begin to step over the Christmas tree and begin inspecting the boxes. 

“Pretty sure the Christmas stuff belongs to everyone.” Northern Ireland gets down on his haunches and pokes the green box with his finger. He can’t remember where this fucking tree came from, but he doesn’t remember a time before it so he thinks it might predate him regardless of the nine ninety nine price tag or the ‘closing down sale’ label half peeled from it’s front. According to the receipt it comes from some store named ‘Cameron’s’ around the late eighties, which should be in Northern Ireland’s memory somewhere but has apparently been buried and blurred and disjointed. 

England is too busy getting misty eyed over a ceramic giraffe to take any notice and only looks up to frown disapprovingly at Northern Ireland's lack of movement. 

“The Christmas stuff is mine.” England responds belatedly, “We divided that up when we realised Scotland didn’t have any.” 

“He said it was too expensive to buy new stuff.” 

Scotland’s meanness earns rolled eyes, followed by an eerie silence that makes Northern Ireland suspect that his older brothers can literally feel it when they’re insulted. The distant rumble of their laughter quells this suspicion. It makes Northern Ireland happy to hear Wales and Scotland indulge in some small show of affection. The counseling they’d been prescribed has been good for those two at least. 

“Do you suppose we’ll have to divide these into three bits?” England jabs Northern Ireland in the arm with a box that rattles when Northern Ireland jolts. England narrows his eyes slightly and shakes his head with an imperceptible flicker of emotion that the poor light helps to hide. 

“Am I not in the will or something?’ Northern Ireland snatches the box and is disappointed to find nothing but an incomplete grouping of tarnished cutlery. “Why would anyone want this?” 

“it’s from the eighteen hundreds.” England explains, then pauses and scrunches up his face, “at least I think they are. If so they’re before your time.” 

Northern Ireland hums and tosses the box aside, making a mental note to try and focus on thinks circa nineteen twenty. He might be able to claim that stuff as his own. Not that he wants any of it, mind, fair’s fair is all. 

“Left you lads some tea, don’t step on it, like.” Ireland calls up, he’s adjusting the dark frames around his eyes when Northern Ireland peers down at him, “you find my books up there yet?” 

“Why would you care, you can’t read them anyway you blind wanker.” Northern Ireland smirks and hears Ireland laugh sarcastically, “what books are they anyway?” 

“My old art stuff, I did calligraphy but it all went missing in England's library.” 

“I hope you’re not making implications!” England snarls from behind a bundle of his records. 

“Who me? No, never.” Ireland taps his foot against the ladder, creating a distinctive creak, perhaps thinking about climbing up and slamming their heads together. “You better not just be poking at your own stuff and lamenting your lost youth.” 

England shoves his box of records aside with such force that it upends and several slide out. “Of course not!” When Ireland's feet move away England wipes his hands down his shirt front and sighs, “sod didn’t even offer to bring the tea up.” 

“How come these aren’t with the rest of your records?” Northern Ireland slides over on his knees and digs open the tattered card box, it’s fusty and smells of old tobacco. The attempt England makes to stop him getting a look comes too late. Northern Ireland is rewarded with a faded image of England with green hair and piercings holding an old electric guitar. 

England blushes at Northern Ireland's bark of laughter then hides the entire thing as soon as he manages to trip over the tree and snatch them away. 

“You made your own music albums?” 

“Album.” England’s blush brightens and he coughs, “these are all the same. They didn’t sell.” 

Northern Ireland makes a note of their location then turns his attention elsewhere, there’s an old CRT monitor gathering dust and some other type of computer system Northern Ireland cannot place at all, an ancient laptop so huge that you’d need a shopping trolley just to shift it. Old gift boxes are full of CD-ROM's, floppies and tape cassettes as well as all the manuals and a Rolodex that vomits out a dead moth when Northern Ireland spins it, it’s stiff and appears to contain old information on all the European countries as well as a few others. The date is hard to place but Czechoslovakia seems to have existed back then. 

“You should probably dump this crap. It’s super gross.” 

“That information is valuable. You never know when you might need some of that.” 

Northern Ireland agrees that having a contact card that labels France as ‘Bastard frog waNkeR with a dozen phone numbers scribbled out might come in useful if England ever comes down with a case of amnesia and needs a brief update on his own opinions; but the use in having a card that simply says ‘PRUSSIA’ and dozens upon dozens of question marks is negotiable. 

“I think these are yours” England offers Northern Ireland a box of game boy games and Northern Ireland feels a wave of nostalgia wash over him, it helps him forget the confusing Rolodex and the ancient technology stored with it. He’s not able to appreciate them long as there’s a loud crash and England topples over, stumbling into a box and going arse over tip. He’s holding a black contraption and appears to care more for it than his own spinal cord. 

“Ye alright?” Northern Ireland winces as he hears England whimper and break something in his attempts to right himself before Northern Ireland takes England’s hand and awkwardly yanks him up, nearly cracking both their heads on the steep ceiling by doing so. 

“I found my old sewing machine.” England wipes cobwebs from his hair and hugs his treasure more tightly. “I used to make you clothing with this.” 

Northern Ireland feels resentment towards the sewing machine but is unable to put voice to it as his eyes fall on a large stack of old paintings he recognises from when the family lived together, it’s a hideous painting of a poodle somebody in the household had owned long before Northern Ireland even existed, the paint has cracked and chipped in places and the dogs disgusting face is even more distorted by time now it’s been locked in here with the spiders and mildew. 

More pictures exist and, most of them, Northern Ireland has a recollection of, several monarchs and landscapes, animals and scenes from mythology, Saint George killing a dragon, an upside down Stonehenge, a cracked mirror in a disgustingly gaudy frame of golden swirls and behind that a small picture that Northern Ireland simply has to pull free. 

It’s stunning. 

It appears to be a picture of an angelic looking woman gazing out a window towards a seascape, the sun making the waves glitter in intricate detail, the rigging on the distant boats perfectly rendered, the blouse hanging from one of the pale shoulders almost real as the light gleams through it. Wispy curls of hair catch in the breeze. 

“Did you paint this, England?” 

England leans over, his reminiscence set aside as he hooks one arm around Northern Ireland's shoulder in order to get a better look. He’s silent as he stares at it and his eyebrows bunch together in the middle. “Never seen that painting before." He takes hold of the corner and shifts the angle as though that will kick-start his memory, “odd, maybe it belongs to your brothers.” 

“Sure, when we find weird stuff they’re MY brothers.” 

“How about we head down for a while and we can ask.” England struggles to his feet and bangs his hand on the wall when he tries to stretch it, “Grab my sewing machine for me when you’re coming.” 

“Yeah, sure.” Northern Ireland swipes the dust off his jeans and heaves the ancient piece of crap into his arms. It’s heavier than he expected. 

He finally sneezes.


End file.
